If I Could Just Get It Right
by foreverafangirl93
Summary: He's fourteen years old. He shouldn't be crying like a baby in his bedroom. He feels so fucking stupid. He just wants to be normal. Why can't he remember? He just wants to remember. One-Shot. Sam, 14. Dean, 18. guilty!John, protectiveangsty!Dean


AN: I know, I know, it's not Storm Before the Calm. Don't hate me lol. My muse got a hold of me and I had to write this short little one-shot. Hope y'all like it! :)

* * *

 _March 15, 1997_

"Hey, dad? Can I ask you a question?"

John's leaning over the kitchen table, pouring over research. He doesn't even bother looking up at his youngest as he scribbles down a note on a page of a nearly full notebook.

"Sure Sammy, give me a minute, alright?"

"Okay," Sam says quietly, rocking back and forth on his heels as he waits. Eventually, he gets bored and goes back to the living room of the small house John rented for the month.

Not even a full minute later, Sam comes bouncing back into the small kitchen.

"Hey, dad? Can I ask you a question?"

John's so close. He's _so fucking_ close to finding a cure. He takes a deep breath and continues reading, unintentionally ignoring his youngest.

"Dad?" Sam begs, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Goddamn it, Sam. Can't you see I'm busy here?" John explodes, "You've asked me that already."

"I have?" Sam's voice trembles, "I-I-I'm sorry."

Shit.

John looks up in time to see Sam run around the corner to his and Dean's shared bedroom. He doesn't have to listen that hard to hear the boy's cries. He swallows back his guilt and forces himself to return to the research. Sam will forget what he's crying about in a moment, anyway, he tells himself.

It doesn't make it hurt any less.

* * *

He's fourteen years old. He shouldn't be crying like a baby in his bedroom. He feels so fucking stupid. He just wants to be normal. Why can't he remember? He just wants to remember.

The rattle of the bedroom door opening jars him out of his depressing thoughts. He reaches up, wiping the tears off his face. He looks at his wet hand in confusion. Huh. He doesn't even know why he's crying.

Dean walks in, all tall and full of confidence. Everything Sam wishes he could be.

"Heyya, Sammy," he says, grinning, but it falters when he sees the tear tracks on his brother's face, "What's up?"

Sam looks away, a tell tale sign of him no longer remembering what it was he was so upset about in the first place. Dean bites back a sigh, feeling regret for letting Sam stay home instead of going with him to get the groceries.

"Come on now, you don't have to do that. Not with me," Dean says, determinedly as he sits on the floor next to him, "So, how was your day?"

Sam swallows, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to think back.

"I…I…I had cereal," Sam says, hesitantly, looking up at Dean, shyly, through his bangs, "Right?"

"Yeah, Sammy, you had cereal," Dean's smiling, "what else?"

"I…I went to school," Sam says slowly, because he probably did go to school, right?

"It's Saturday, bud," Dean says, gently.

Sam looks down, embarrassed. Dean nudges his shoulder.

"We watched some crappy tv, remember? Even Dad watched with us."

Sam looks up, grinning at Dean, "Yeah, yeah…I remember."

Dean looks at him, knowingly, "What'd we watch, Sammy?"

Shit. Caught.

Sam swallows, feeling the tears build up. He looks away, wishing nothing more than to be able to just fucking _remember_ for once.

"I don't know…I don't know!" Sam exclaims, putting his hands on his face, "I'm so fucking stupid."

"Hey!" Dean barks, then says softer, "watch what you say about my favorite brother." He lifts his arm, pulling Sam into his chest. Sam shudders, holding onto the end of Dean's shirt, still crying. A few seconds later, the grip lessons on the shirt and Sam goes still, breathing evenly. Dean asks, hesitantly, "Sammy?"

"Dean? When'd you get home?"

Dean closes his eyes, mentally telling himself that it's not Sam's fault. Willing himself to have patience.

"and why are we cuddling?" Sam asks, nearly giggling.

Dean playfully pushes him away, getting a good look at Sam's red, but clearly happy face.

"Dude, we were so not cuddling."

"Dude," Sam mocks, "I think we were." He stands up, stretching, "So, what're we having for lunch?"

"It's dinner time, Sam," Dean points out, gesturing to the clock.

Sam looks, feeling his face turn pink. He lets his hair fall in his eyes, hiding his shame.

"I was thinking pizza. Maybe we'll even put some of that healthy shit that you like? Pineapple or something?" Dean suggests, just wanting to be brothers again. To tease, to laugh. Even if it's just for a few moments.

"That 'healthy shit' as you so eloquently put it will save your life one day, Dean. All that meat will clog up your arteries, you know that, right?" Sam says, in that annoyed little brother voice he's perfected.

Dean laughs, reaching out to mess up Sam's hair, earning him a scowl from his younger, and almost as tall as him, brother, "Yeah, I know that, squirt."

* * *

Anterograde Amnesia.

Dean never knew two words could permanently fuck up your life as much as those did.

Anterograde Amnesia: the inability to create new memories.

Sam's smart, like Stephen Hawking smart. But, he has a hard time with memories.

For instance, he knows how to do the everyday things like eating, washing dishes, riding a bike. He knows who Dean and their Dad is, so that's always a relief. According to the books Dean's read on amnesia, it could be worse. It could be _way_ worse.

What Sam has trouble with is remembering what day it is or what they did during the day. Whenever they have a conversation, they can usually talk for 3-4 minutes before it's like a reset button takes over Sam's brain and they're right back where they started.

It's hard for Dean to watch his once crossword-solving, multi-tasking younger brother now having to struggle as much as he does with remembering.

Of course, Sam knows something's wrong. Every now and then Dean or their dad will snap at him, not out of any hatred or anything like that, but…they are, after all, only human. Patience has never been one of a defining characteristic trait of any of the Winchester's.

Sam chews on his last piece of pizza happily in front of the television, not even aware of the older Winchesters watching him.

He laughs out loud at something on _The Simpsons_ , causing Dean and his father to look at him with a mixture of fondness and sadness.

"I'm so close," John whispers to Dean from the doorway leading into the kitchen.

Dean doesn't take his eyes off his brother, "You've said that before."

John winces, as if he's been struck, "I know, but-"

"Whatever, Dad. Do what you gotta do. Take off on some bogus lead. Again. Sam and I, we'll be here."

Dean ignores Dad's look of shock and hurt and goes to sit by Sam on the couch.

"Dean, aren't you going to eat?" John hears Sam ask, "You can have some of mine if you want."

Large, wide eyes look up at him and Dean feels a tug on his heart. He swallows back emotions and looks up, briefly locking eyes with John. The eldest Winchester feels his heart drop. He'll fix this. He's _got_ to fix this.

"I already ate, Sammy," Dean says, softly, the way he does when Sam should remember something, causing Sam's shoulders to fall. Dean can't take the crestfallen look on his brother's face. So, just because he can, Dean picks off a piece of pineapple off of Sam's last piece and plops it into his mouth.

"You're a jerk, Dean," Sam says, playfully scowling.

"So I've been told, Sammy. So I've been told."


End file.
